


yes I said yes I will Yes

by angelsaves



Category: Succession (TV 2018), The Marketplace Series - Laura Antoniou
Genre: Canon Past Character Death, Dissociation, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Slow Holler Tarot, Slutist Tarot, Tarot Challenge, Vaginal Fisting, genital flogging, my own Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 00:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21498772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: Gerri is ready to stop hiding from herself; an old friend helps her get back in touch with her body.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Ken Mandarin, past Gerri Kellman/Baird Kellman
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Fortune Favors: Round One— Rider-Waite-Smith





	yes I said yes I will Yes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on three tarot cards: the 7 of Swords, the 2 of Cups, and the Magician. I chose the [7 of Knives](https://i.imgur.com/6WcY0mg.jpg) from the [Slow Holler](https://slowholler.com/) deck, the [2 of Cups](https://i.imgur.com/2KPt5sW.jpg) from the [Slutist Tarot](https://littleredtarot.com/product/the-slutist-tarot/), and the [Magician](https://i.imgur.com/xph0k93.jpg) from a deck I made myself (not commercially available).

1.  
Gerri's been a widow for six months and three days. She could calculate the hours, too, if she cared to, and the minutes (it's hard to forget a doctor's tired voice as she announces the time of death), but she'd really rather not.

The apartment is empty without Baird, without the girls, gone back to their lives, and Gerri feels like the last Cheerio in the box, stale and rattling around. It's a shitty way to feel.

She's just about to pour herself a drink and look over some paperwork when she gets a text message: _in town ma chérie come be amused_ , no punctuation except for the proper accent in the French endearment. Even if the number weren't in her contacts, Gerri would recognize who had sent that anywhere.

"Ken Mandarin," she says out loud. "What perfect timing."

Gerri sends a thumbs-up emoji back to Ken, and in return, gets the name and address of a local leather bar. It's the same place they'd met up a year ago, under new management. Good: maybe no one will ask after Baird.

She dresses quickly: black compression top, black jeans, black cap pulled low over her eyes and hair, black boots. The unrelieved black is _de rigueur_ in these circles, but it also suits her mood. That, and Ken has always admired blondes in black.

Taking the town car would be just a little conspicuous, so Gerri fires up the app and summons a Juno instead, trusting to her mirrored sunglasses and unlawyerlike outfit to keep her relatively anonymous. The driver does stare a little, but Gerri doesn't think it's because she's spotted her as the legal counsel of Waystar Royco.

"Um, here," the driver says when they arrive, handing her a business card. "If you, uh, need a ride again? Or anything."

Gerri smirks and takes the card. "Thanks," she says, pocketing it as she slips out of the car. The driver doesn't look more than about twenty-three, but the attention is definitely flattering.

It puts a little bit of swagger in her step as she heads into the bar, folding her sunglasses and putting them in her pocket. Ken is already there, lounging against the bar in black leather chaps and a man's tailored shirt, sipping clear liquor. "Gerri!" she cries, dropping her glass on the bar. " _Ma chérie!_ It is so good to see you!"

"And you, Ken," Gerri says, allowing Ken to kiss her cheeks continental-style. "How have you been?"

"I cannot complain!" She sits back down on her stool and gestures for Gerri to join her. "Barkeep, your finest scotch for my dear friend!"

"Maybe your third-finest," Gerri demurs, "unless _my_ dear friend is paying."

"But of course," Ken says. "It's the least I can do." Her face clouds. "I regret my absence --"

"Don't," Gerri says, holding up one hand. Ken immediately stops talking. "I don't want to talk about that. Not tonight."

"You would rather forget?" 

"No." Gerri takes the scotch from the bartender and sips it. "I want to remember."

"Ahhh." Ken draws out the syllable, meeting Gerri's eyes with a predatory smile. "That, I believe I can assist with." She removes the drink from Gerri's hand. "Shall we go?"

Gerri licks her lips. "Yes," she says. She's ready to stop hiding from herself.

2.  
Ken's duplex is at least as sumptuous as Gerri remembers it: high ceilings, huge windows, everything done in the blacks and reds Ken prefers. She admires the view while Ken pours drinks.

"Just mineral water, _ma chérie_. I want your head clear for this," Ken says, leaning against the counter and sipping.

"Fair enough." Gerri drinks the water.

"Has much changed since we last indulged?" Ken asks. "Aside from the obvious."

Gerri considers the question. "I need more lube these days," she says frankly, "and I've lost my taste for canes. Besides that?" She shrugs. "I'm open to anything we've done. I just want to _feel_."

"Come into my playroom."

Gerri's always liked that, for all Ken's intensity, she retains the sense that what they do together is a game. She knows about the Marketplace, of course, but it's never charmed her the way it does Ken. The skills Ken has picked up through it, though... those, she can appreciate.

She goes into the playroom, and Ken is standing there with a coil of rope, twined red and black. "I think this will look lovely against your skin," Ken says, idly slapping the rope against her palm. "Strip for me."

Gerri smirks at her. "You don't want to make me?" she asks, cocking a hip.

"Not this time. I want to watch." Ken gestures with the rope. " _Allons-y._ "

"All right." Gerri starts with her cap, letting her hair fall free. Ken nods, and Gerri keeps going: boots, shirt, jeans, bra, underwear, until she's standing in front of Ken in the nude. They've done this before; Ken knows the shape of her, the places that have grown softer, the ones that have grown stronger.

Ken comes closer, stalking like a tiger, and strokes Gerri with the rope, trailing the strands down her upper arm, across her chest. Gerri sucks in a breath, and Ken's gaze flicks up to her face. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Gerri says, because she wants to be. She's going to be. "Don't stop."

Ken hums a little and traces the rope over the curves of Gerri's belly and hips. Gerri is trembling in spite of herself. "Shh," Ken says, steadying her with her other hand, and captures her mouth in a kiss.

"Mmm!" Gerri runs her fingers through the spikes of Ken's hair and lets Ken take control. Trust is the name of the game, and Gerri knows how to play it as well as any other. Ken will take care of her.

They kiss for quite a while, until Gerri is breathing hard against the onslaught of Ken's mouth, and Ken pulls back, laughing. "Better?" she asks.

"Yes," Gerri admits.

"Good." Ken shakes out the rope with a _thwap_ and stretches a doubled length of it between her hands. "I would rather decorate you than restrain you tonight, _ma chérie_. I want you to keep saying _yes._ "

"Yes," Gerri says, laughing a little.

"All right." Ken starts to wrap her in rope, her hands quick and competent. It's asymmetrical, like a sunburst over Gerri's left breast, another over her right hip. "How does it feel?"

Gerri shifts her weight experimentally, enjoying the comfortable pressure of the rope as she moves within it. "Like a beautiful present," she says.

"Ah, yes!" Ken gives her a brief kiss. "A gift for me." She tugs on a section of rope, right over Gerri's sternum. "Now, _ma chérie_ , I want you to raise your arms and take hold of the ring above your head."

"Yes, sir." Gerri wraps her hands around the gleaming stainless steel. It's a solid, grounding feeling; her arms are extended, but not stretched, and she instinctively spreads her feet to the width of her shoulders.

"Good, good." Ken pushes Gerri's shoulders forward, her ass out. "Shall I warm you up?"

"Yes, please."

Ken strokes down her back with one hand, then, just as Gerri is getting used to the sensation, smacks her hard on the ass, making her cry out. "Another?" Ken offers solicitously.

"Yes!"

Ken smacks her again, on the other cheek, and Gerri exhales sharply. More strikes fall, warming Gerri's ass to what she's sure is a rosy glow. "Up," Ken says then.

Gerri looks up to see Ken selecting a small flogger from the nearby stand. She pulls herself up to stand straighter, and Ken stretches the tails and lets them fly, a rain of stings on Gerri's right breast. "Oh, fuck," she says.

"Too much?" Ken asks, gathering the tails again.

"No. Just right." The pain is racing across Gerri's skin, and she feels -- good. Real. "Do it again -- sir."

Ken smiles. "Good girl." The flogger flies again. Gerri knows better than to look -- breast flogging is one thing, face flogging quite another -- but she imagines the spattering of red welts criss-crossing her fair skin. It's a good thought, and she smiles.

"Legs apart," Ken says, and Gerri obeys. Now Ken swings the little flogger, catching the soft flesh of Gerri's cunt. She shrieks, undignified, and Ken says, "Ah, yes. That is where you were asleep," and does it again, and again.

The words are soft, but they hit Gerri harder than the flogger, and she shudders. It's true, and she hates it.

"The mortifying ordeal of being known, _n'est-ce pas?_ " Ken pushes Gerri's chin up with one finger.

"Oh, fuck off!" Gerri snaps, embarrassment flooding her face in a warm rush.

"Let go," Ken says, not unkindly. "Get on the table, on your back -- or would you prefer your hands and knees?"

It's been so long that it takes Gerri a moment to decide how she'd rather be fucked. "On my back," she says at last, "so I can see your charming face."

"Always the flattery!" Ken nudges her with the handle of the flogger. "Go on."

The table is large enough for a family dinner, padded and covered in supple black leather. It caresses Gerri's skin like an old lover as she settles herself on it, legs open, waiting.

Ken doesn't disappoint her, returning with a huge pump bottle of silicone lube, wearing an opera-length black nitrile glove on her dominant hand. _Well, both of Ken's hands are dominant,_ Gerri thinks, a bubble of laughter bursting out of her.

"Good. Laughter is relaxing," Ken says. "You're going to take my fist, yes? The whole thing?"

Gerri groans. Fuck, she's missed this. "Yes," she says, "up to your goddamned elbow."

"That's the spirit!"

And God, but Ken is good at this. Her slick fingers part Gerri easily, and she gives her three of them, just this side of too much, her free hand resting gently on Gerri's lower belly. "More," Gerri demands.

Ken says something in Mandarin. Gerri doesn't speak it, but if she had to guess, she'd translate it as "greedy bitch." It's not an insult, coming from her. It feels almost as good as Ken adding her fourth finger.

"Oh, fuck!" Gerri arches her hips up off the sweat-slick table, and Ken moves in her, slowly and confidently. "Yes!"

Ken doesn't hurry, no matter how much Gerri begs and curses, insisting on adding more lube twice before she finally relents and folds in her thumb. It's a stretch -- it always has been, even though Ken's hands are small -- but it's exquisite, not excruciating.

" _Fuck._ " Gerri stretches the word to its breaking point. Ken is fully inside her now, knuckles grazing her G-spot, and Gerri feels like she's flying.

"Yes," Ken says softly. "There you are."

"Here I am," Gerri says. Her face is wet; she doesn't know whether to blame it on sweat or tears. "Yes."

3.  
It's like Gerri is back inside her body for the first time in ages. Everything seems brighter. She could take on the fucking world.

 _Nothing like a good friend,_ she thinks giddily, and she opens her office door and goes inside.


End file.
